


A Friend of the Devil

by TeekiJane



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeekiJane/pseuds/TeekiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abby's not really babysitting. She's more of a prison warden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend of the Devil

“I wish he were dead.”

I looked up from the article on the latest MLS scores I was reading and gave a measured glance. This was the first time my sitting charge had spoken to me, and I’d been in his house for nearly two hours. I wasn’t ignoring him; if anything, he was ignoring me. He wasn’t happy about the current arrangement—I could feel the frustration radiating off of him when he spoke those five words. 

I hadn’t done any babysitting in nearly two years, and actually, I’m not sure you could even call this job babysitting, either. I was less a sitter and more a warden. My primary responsibilities were to keep the young convict in the house, and if he resisted, call in reinforcements—in other words, alert the parents. 

Honestly, he really was too old for a sitter anyway. By the time _I_ was eleven or twelve, I stayed on my own after school, without supervision. And I think that was standard at his house, too, except for the fact that he was not just grounded but Really Super Grounded. No television. No phone. No computer. No leaving the house. Like I said, I wasn’t a sitter, I was a jailer. 

It was really a weird way to spend the day. It had started a couple days ago, when his stepsister had called me, explaining the situation. “You see, he’s in so much trouble that one of us has to be home with him at all times,” she said in a hushed tone, the kind you use when you’re talking on the phone about someone who's within hearing distance. “Dawn and I have been taking turns supervising him during the day while our parents are at work,” Mary Anne continued. “But we both have plans Thursday. I’m going shopping with Stacey and Dori, while Dawn and Kristy are both in that community theater production and have to be at rehearsal. It’ll only be for about four hours, and my dad’s willing to pay you twice what we used to make back when we were in the BSC.” 

So here I was, sitting on the couch at the Spiers’ house, casually looking over the sports section of the newspaper at Jeff Schafer, who was sitting at a computer desk a short distance away, his back to me. He was trying to log into the machine, but his parents had password protected it. Mary Anne had given me the password, but her father didn’t want it written down anywhere, and it was nineteen digits worth of random numbers and letters. I’d promptly forgotten it. “Who?” I asked. 

Jeff turned around, startled. “What?” he asked, discombobulated. I’d seen him before, more than once, at parties at Mary Anne’s when her stepsibs had been visiting from California, but I’d never really paid that much attention. He was tall for his age, but still with that skinny build many kids had; he was clearly an athlete, built for speed and agility rather than strength. He had his blond hair short but done up in spikes and he didn’t really have much sense of fashion, but hell. He was eleven, almost twelve. Most boys don’t at that age. 

I looked at him a moment longer before I realized that he might not have known that he even spoke out loud originally. “You said you wished ‘he’ was dead. I was just wondering who ‘he’ was.” 

Jeff pounded another random combination of letters into the computer and when it wasn’t successful, he spun around in the chair to face me. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked suspiciously. 

I stifled a chuckle. Mary Anne had told him what was going on as she was leaving a few minutes after I’d arrived, but Jeff hadn’t exactly been listening to her. The second she started to speak, he’d turned up the volume on his CD player until the house started shaking. The music hadn’t been on the taboo list, so Mary Anne had ignored his rudeness and just let it play. I’d done the same thing because he was listening to Rage Against the Machine. You’ve got to admire an angry boy with good taste. “I’m Abby,” I reminded him. “I’m a friend of your sister’s.” 

“Which one?” Jeff retorted. “The real one or the fake one?” 

I made the decision not to get involved in family politics with political correctness or semantics. “Both, sorta.” I liked Dawn well enough, but didn’t think we were close enough to be considered friends. “But that doesn’t matter. I know you’re not interested in killing your sisters…or me, for that matter…because you said ‘him.’ Him who?” 

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Jeff insisted. “I just want an accident to happen. Like maybe a piano gets dropped on his head. Or he just spontaneously combusts.” 

I raised one eyebrow. “Who?” I repeated. “Your stepfather?” Mr. Spier was the only male in the house, besides Jeff, and from the sounds of things, he was the stern disciplinarian type. Jeff might have thought he was responsible for the state of affairs. 

“Maybe Richard,” he acknowledged. “Or maybe my dad. Maybe both. One could get the piano, and the other could spontaneously combust. What good are parents, anyway?” 

The question was obviously rhetorical; I’d asked it many times myself. But there was this crushing feeling on my chest, hearing Jeff wishing his fathers—both of them—dead. I dug in my bag for my inhaler, even though I knew the tightness wasn’t asthma-related. “Well, they are good for a few things, like paying the bills. A kid’s gotta eat, right?” Jeff had been looking at his lap, but he turned back to me, his expression murderous enough that I began rethinking my earlier stance on his lack of interest in killing me. “Anyway, what’s your dad got to do with this? You’re locked in an ivory tower in Connecticut. Your dad’s on the opposite coast. Why the hate?” Jeff sized me up for a minute, and I held up my hands in a sign of surrender, still clutching my inhaler. “Hey. You can say whatever you want to me and not worry about it. I ain’t no squealer.” 

Jeff snorted, his legs pulled up in front of him. One of his knees was scraped up pretty good, covered in bandages. Based upon the placement, I was guessing skateboard accident. “He sent me out here to this place I hate,” he muttered into his shorts. 

I put my inhaler and my newspaper inside my bag, assured I wouldn’t need either one any time soon. “This place?” I repeated, wanting a clarification. “Your mom’s house? Stoneybrook? Connecticut? The East Coast?” 

Jeff hauled off the computer chair and plopped down dramatically next to me on the couch. I tucked my backpack and bike helmet on the floor next to my sneakers before I acknowledged him again, beckoning to him to answer the question. “A little bit of all of the above,” he muttered. “I don’t totally hate Stoneybrook. I have some friends here, really good friends.” Jeff’s eyes shot over to the family portrait above the mantle. In it, he was a couple years younger, sitting on the couch with a short-haired Mary Anne and a long-haired Dawn. Dawn basically looked the same now as in that photo, maybe a little bit taller. Mary Anne’s hair had grown out shoulder length and she’d wound up pretty large-chested by comparison. I didn’t know exactly why Jeff was looking at the photo until he spoke again. “And I love my mom. I do. There’s just something about this place that isn’t the same as home.” 

I nodded in understanding. Hadn’t I felt the same way when my mother had moved us from Long Island? Both Stoneybrook and my house felt like home now, but I’d lived there for two years. Jeff just came and visited his mother a couple weeks a year. “Different isn’t always bad,” I pointed out. “But obviously you’re not happy here if you’re getting grounded and feverishly praying for the death of your relatives.” Jeff finally tore his attention from the picture of his mother and eyed me warily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” 

“I want to go home,” he uttered to the air. I waited for him to elaborate, knowing there had to be more. “Dad made me and Dawn come here for the whole summer, from three days after school got out until nearly the day it goes back into session. I haven’t been in Stoneybrook this long since I lived here, and you know how that worked out.” I didn’t, really. I knew he’d asked to move back to California and his mom had let him go, but I’d never asked for any more details. It hadn’t been my business. “It was okay at first. Mom and Richard work all day, so as long as I was home for dinner, I could do what I wanted. So me and the triplets hung out a lot, and I played soccer with some boys I met at the park. 

“But now things are all wrong. The triplets went to Sea City with their family for two whole weeks. The AYSO season started, so the boys don’t play in the park anymore—they’re at practice instead. And then Mom grounded me and I can’t even watch television anymore.” 

I furrowed my brow. “What did you do to get grounded, anyway?” I asked. Obviously it had to be something major because this was some grounding. Jeff didn’t answer, instead burrowing into the couch, purposely turning his back to me. I wasn’t going to find out any time soon, obviously. After a moment of silence in which I observed the passing of the rapport Jeff and I had been building, I stood up. “Go get your shoes,” I told him. “And your soccer ball. We’re going outside.” 

I had his attention again. “I’m not allowed outside,” he spat. “Didn’t Mary Anne tell you that?” 

“Yes,” I acknowledged. “But come on. Dawn won’t be home for another two hours. We’ll set this alarm on my watch.” I made a big show of fiddling with the buttons, setting an hour long timer. “And you can be back upstairs in your room brooding before she ever comes back. It’ll be our little secret.” 

I could see him softening, but something was preventing him from saying yes. “We-ell,” Jeff said slowly, but then he stopped. 

I watched him fiddling with one of his bandages and suddenly understood. If someone came home early and caught him, it would only make things worse. Maybe he wouldn’t even be allowed out of his room. Maybe they’d take away his CD player. “If anyone sees us, I’ll take all the blame.” I pulled on one shoe and quickly tied the laces. “I’m going outside. Coming with?” 

Of course Jeff followed me. Even with the potential fear of punishment, he was sorely tempted by the chance to get some fresh air and exercise. 

Have you ever tried hanging out with someone who is only with you because you were the least horrible option? Even with a shared activity, it’s torture. Part of me wanted to give up and let Jeff head back upstairs to his angry white boy music, but the other, outdoorsy part won. I kept kicking the ball, passing back and forth with a partner who would rather have been anywhere else. 

After maybe thirty minutes I got tired of the silent treatment and strained to find an innocuous topic of conversation to break the stalemate. “What’s it like in California?” I asked my sullen charge. It was a dumb question; I’d been to parts of the state myself. And anyway, the query was so vague as to be meaningless as a conversation starter. 

Jeff looked up from feigning ridiculous levels of concentration on the ball. It was obvious he was faking, as he was too much of a natural athlete to need to pay _that_ much attention. “It’s okay,” he muttered with a shrug before returning to his intense focus on the barely moving ball. 

Okay? _Okay?_ Now, I’d never been to Los Angeles, or Orange County, or Anaheim or Palo City, but it seemed to be universally declared that it was better than ‘okay.’ Dawn couldn’t stop raving about it if you got her started, and even Mary Anne, who usually preferred the glitz and glamour of New York, spoke highly of SoCal. And I could tell you that San Francisco and Yosemite were beyond awesome. Obviously, my attempt at bonding was a complete dud. I don’t know what I was expecting. 

I struggled vainly to remember something about Jeff that I could use as an opening, a wedge to get past the angry exterior. Even if he didn’t tell me what was wrong—why he was so upset with his father—at least we could end our time together on a positive note. I thought back to the time, several years before, when Kristy had forced me to read the entire Babysitter’s Club notebook, which by that point consisted of two fat spiral notebooks, with smeared, sometimes illegible writing and Claudia’s unintelligible spelling. It had taken me two weeks to slog through it all—and by _all_ I mean the first so many entries and the last few; I still to this day think Kristy was crazy for thinking I was going to read about every sitting job the BSC had ever done! In any case, I wasn’t sure if I had read about any jobs for Jeff back when he was younger. Even if I had, it was more than two years ago, and I can barely remember what I read for English class last semester. 

I dribbled the ball past Jeff and into a small gap in the bushes. He rolled his eyes at me and plopped down on the ground, making it abundantly clear that he wasn’t about to help me hunt it back up. “Abby shoots and scores,” I muttered as I knelt down and fished the ball out from among the shrubbery. 

I backed out from gap slowly, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that my butt was sticking up in the air in a highly unflattering fashion. Jeff was just at the right age that I expected him to be staring at it or make some smartass—get it?—joke about my tush. Instead, he was looking at his knee, picking at the mess of Band-Aids. One of them was hanging off, flapping in the wind, and Jeff was frowning at the half-formed scab that was exposed. He took the filthy bandage and tried to stick it back over his wound, but it had no adhesive left. Jeff finally gave up, looking defeated, his feelings exposed as much as that scrape, just as obviously bleeding. 

I sat down beside him, still not sure what to say to him. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and then gazed at him again. Jeff was looking everywhere but at me, and when I sighed, he carefully arranged his face in a neutral expression. I’d seen that face before…on his sister. Dawn had arrived at Kristy’s family’s Christmas party last year, her facial features drawn tight, but trying to cover how unhappy she was. Claudia had noticed right away and drawn Dawn into a conversation that had caused her to loosen up and relax. Mary Anne’s own demeanor hadn’t been any more easygoing, but she’d actually been better at covering—which must have been a first. “What’s bothering you?” Kristy had asked at the first possible opportunity, when it was just the three of us standing in front of the sparkling cider. 

Mary Anne had shaken her head and tried to school her expression, but there was still tension in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, nothing,” she said wearily. “Jeff’s just been driving us crazy. He got a new joke book and he won’t stop sharing ridiculous puns.” 

Kristy had laughed heartily. “And this is different from when he usually visits because…?” 

Mary Anne had managed a small smile. “You’re right,” she’d admitted. “I guess I’m just being uptight.” 

Kristy punched her gently on the shoulder. “You? Uptight?” she teased as she reached for a champagne glass—one that actually had champagne in it, not cider. Mary Anne rolled her eyes and Kristy handed her the glass, which Mary Anne accepted gingerly. Kristy grabbed two more glasses, one of champagne and one of cider. She handed the latter to me. “Actually, Abby, you should hang out with Jeff sometime,” she noted, attempting to change the topic. “You guys have the same sense of humor.” 

_There_. That was exactly what I needed, right there. It occurred to me now, for the first time, that Mary Anne hadn’t been being truthful about what had been going on at home, but there was more than that at stake here. I could remember other times that Mary Anne had mentioned Jeff’s love of jokes, usually in a frustrated tone of voice that had me wondering what she thought about me and my fondness for puns. 

I drew my legs in front of me, crossing them like I was a kindergartener about to listen to story hour. Instead, I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Jeff quit picking at his bandage and watched me, drawing into himself. I could see his hackles were raised, thinking I was trying to bond with him again. And I was—just not the way he expected. “Hey,” I said quietly, watching his sullen eyes follow every bit of movement. “How many apples grow on trees?” 

Jeff’s expression turned dubious. “What?” 

I sat up straighter. “I asked you, how many apples grow on trees?” He raised his eyebrows, leaning back away from me like I was insane, and then shook his head. “All of them.” 

Jeff rolled his eyes at the lameness, but it was the first thing that came to mind. It’s never failed that one amazingly awful riddle leads to another, too. “Why do chicken coupes have two doors?” I continued, and this time I didn’t wait for a response. “Because if they had four doors, they’d be sedans!” I laughed, even though it hadn’t been funny since I was seven. “How about this one: How do you find Will Smith in the snow? You look for the fresh prints.” 

Jeff actually snorted, but he covered his mouth with his hand in an effort to prevent me from noticing. It didn’t work. I leaned back onto my back, my legs still crossed; I could feel the pulling through my muscles as I arched my back. I was giving Jeff a minute to unwind himself a bit before I continued, but I guess he wasn’t as tightly wound as I’d thought. “Did you know,” he began slowly, in a low voice. I propped myself up on my elbows in an effort to hear him better. “A man gets stabbed every 50 seconds in London. I really feel sorry for that guy.” 

I had to chuckle at that one. I looked over at Jeff, who was smirking by this point. He waggled his eyebrows, and I saw him for the kid he usually was. I didn’t want to ruin the moment so I kept rolling. “I had a dream last night that I was a muffler. I woke up exhausted.” 

“Two peanuts were walking down the street. One got assaulted.” 

“Two guys walk into a bar. The third one ducks.” 

“A ham sandwich walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says, ‘We don’t serve food here.’” 

“Why did the coffee file a police report? It got mugged.” 

We went that way for a while longer, trading joke for joke. By that point I was once again leaning with my elbows on my knees, and Jeff had turned to face me. His face was animated and full of mischief…at least, for a while. After one last riddle, he heaved a giant sigh and put his elbow down on the knee that wasn’t scraped up, turning the other way. “Everything okay?” I asked after a few minutes. I had vowed not to pry again, but I figured that question could fall on any level. He could tell me what was bothering him right at that second, or explain the hate he was carrying around with him; it was all up to him. 

Jeff shook himself. His eyes were red around the edges but not quite glistening like they would have been if he’d been crying. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “I think I just ran out of jokes.” 

I nodded and looked at my watch. “Probably for the best anyway. It’s almost time for us to head back inside.” 

Jeff sighed again, more mightily this time, and hauled himself off the ground. “How long do I have before…?” 

I checked the watch. “Two minutes and twelve seconds.” 

He grabbed the soccer ball. “Not enough time to do anything,” he grumbled. 

I took the ball from him and tossed it towards the door we’d exited earlier. “I bet we could race around the house before the timer goes off,” I insisted. 

Jeff gauged the distance briefly. “Probably twice.” 

“Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, let’s see if you’re right. Ready, set…go!” 

The timer went off just as we were finishing our second lap. Jeff rolled his eyes for a moment, but willingly went back inside. “Hey,” I called as he disappeared up the stairs. He backed up and leaned over so I could just see his head. “Bring that CD you were listening to back down here, okay? That was some awesome jams.” 

Jeff trudged back up the rest of the flight but called back down behind him. “I’m not in the mood for that one anymore,” he shouted. “I’ve got something better instead.” 

He was gone for quite a while, and I began to think that he’d decided on a little alone time. I shrugged to myself and pulled out my newspaper, but no sooner had I opened it to the sports section than I heard feet thumping back down the stairs. “You ever hear of this?” he asked, thrusting a CD into my hand. 

I flipped the case over. “ _American Beauty_?” I read aloud, as if I were insulted, which I kind of was. The Grateful Dead wasn’t really my style, but I wasn’t brain dead (get it?). I was honestly just grateful (heh heh, sorry) that he hadn’t brought me Britney Spears or whatever most boys his age were listening to. “If this is what you’re in the mood for, then that’s what’s going to play.” 

I tried to work the Spiers’ complicated stereo system, but after a couple minutes, Jeff wordlessly took over for me. Instead I walked over a shelf and inspected the wide variety of CDs as Jeff’s music began wafting from speakers all over the ground floor. (I was honestly quite impressed with the whole setup.) The discs were myriad genres, ranging from a bunch of classical music and jazz that I had to guess belonged to Mr. Spier, to a mishmash of folk music and psychedelic 60s music that explained Jeff’s affection for the past. 

The music began just as I finished browsing, or maybe I quit looking because the music began flooding the room. I collapsed back onto the sofa, letting the, well, beauty of _American Beauty_ wash over me. My mother used to put the same CD on when she was feeling nostalgic for her childhood, so hearing it made me nostalgic for _my_ youth. I closed my eyes, remembering Mom dancing around as she cleaned. I was maybe six at the time. Anna and I had been watching television before Mom had turned it off. Anna wandered off to find something productive to do, but I remained on the couch, watching my mother sway around, doing more rhythmic movements than dusting. 

Just as I was beginning to think she was crazy, my father came home from the grocery store. I’d expected him to make some kind of joke about the dreamy state my mother was in. Instead, Dad dropped the groceries next to the door and joined Mom. She was startled as he reached for her hand, but after a second she smiled. I sat on the couch for a full song, watching as Dad twirled Mom around. It was one of the memories that had been extremely painful right after Dad had died, but one that I treasured now. 

The first song ended and I opened my eyes. There must be something about the Dead that turns everyone who listens to them into a bunch of dancin’ fools. Jeff was swaying, his arms doing some type of random wave over his head. There appeared to be no pattern to his movements, but putting the music behind it, it all seemed to make sense. _What do you want me to do, to watch for you while you are sleeping? _I knew exactly what I needed to do at that moment, spiritually.__

We must have looked like quite a pair, my prisoner and I, as we danced around the room, completely unaware of our surroundings. Completely unselfconscious. It wasn’t exactly my style to care what other people thought about how I looked or sounded, and despite the obvious need to appear tough and self-sufficient, it appeared Jeff felt the same. 

I barely noticed the passage of time after that, only the passage of songs. And while I would have rather been listening to Aretha or Elvis or hell, even Rage Against the Machine, I let the music wash over me. _A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine._ While moving to my own drummer, I bumped and thudded my way around the Spier living room, not caring about the bruises from the coffee table or the desk chair. Somewhere along the way, Jeff had taken a seat on the back of the couch, his legs dangling, thumping in rhythm to the tune. I reached out my hand to him. Jeff paused momentarily, looking around like he was afraid the walls had eyes to see him and a mouth to tattle. But of course he accepted my hand and we danced together for a brief moment. I had just started to spin him around, the way my dad had with my mom, when the music suddenly cut out. _If I get home before midnight—_

“What’s going on over here?” a voice called. More than the music stopping, the knowledge that someone else was invading was invading this little private moment killed the urge to dance. I dropped Jeff’s hand and he pulled it away swiftly. By the expression on his face he was waiting, I presumed, for the snarky-sibling snappy line that I was known for sharing with Anna. Dawn didn’t disappoint. “This is fancy,” she commented, still standing with her hand on the power button to the stereo. Her eyes flicked over to me and she gave me a quick smile, confirming that she was just trying to annoy her brother. “Who is this, Jeff, your girlfriend?” 

It was amazingly effective. Jeff blushed ruddy-red straight down to the roots of his hair and looked down at the ground, shuffling one foot around. “No,” he muttered. 

I tried to save him from his misery just a little. “I’m here to keep an eye on him,” I replied on his behalf. Even though I suspected Dawn already knew why I was in the house, I was careful not to say _babysit_ , despite the fact that is what Mary Anne had said on the phone. 

“Suuuuure,” Dawn teased, drawing the syllable out. “I believe you two. Maybe next time, though, Abby, you should actually keep him indoors, instead of letting him out to play soccer?” 

The soccer ball. We’d left it outside the house. I felt my heart drop into my feet, because I’d never intended to get Jeff in more trouble; in fact, I’d promised him just the opposite. “Umm…” I eloquently began. “That was my ball. I was outside doing drills while Jeff was up in his room.” Jeff flashed a brief glance at me before he returned his glance to his feet. 

Dawn laughed. “Suuuuure,” she repeated in the same teasing tone. “That’s why it has the name Schafer on it.” 

_Busted._ No sense in denying it now. She’d either tell or she wouldn’t. I looked at my watch and changed the subject, something I am usually very good at. “Your dad—stepdad—wrote me a check to pay me. I’m scheduled to be here for another half an hour. Do you…?” 

Dawn interrupted my question. “Practice got out early,” she said, not really answering me. She walked by me at that second, and I could smell a very familiar scent practically billowing off of her. Anyone who’d ever been to a party out by the old mill recognized _that_ odor; it looked like the community theater wasn’t Dawn’s only extracurricular activity. If her parents’ noses were any good, she was going to have to change clothes and shower before they got home. And maybe do her own laundry. “If you’re willing to stick around, good. That’s another half an hour I don’t have to spend with Mr. Doesn’t-Know-When-to-Quit over there. I’m going up to my room. Just keep the noise down here to a minimum, okay?” Dawn ran her hand through Jeff’s hair, ruining his spikes. He ducked away from her hand, looking put out, and sat down on the couch. Dawn then flounced out of the room. 

“Wow,” I muttered, sitting down on the other side of the couch from Jeff. He was still blushing and was avoiding eye contact with me, so I thought I’d try the whole innocuous subject switch thing again. “So that’s what it’s like having an older sister, huh? So glad my parents didn’t do that to me.” 

Jeff was still wearing his shoes, but he hauled his feet up on the couch in front of him, turning so he was facing me somewhat. “I stayed out after curfew,” he announced. 

I was now officially lost. “What?” 

He made eye contact for the first time since his sister had come home. “That’s how I got grounded.” 

“Right.” Who hadn’t done that a time or two, or, in my case, maybe more like a couple dozen times? It hardly seemed like an offense to warrant such a punishment. “Your parents are pretty strict, huh?” I commented. I didn’t remember Mary Anne ever getting such a fierce punishment. 

Jeff scrunched up his mouth, and I knew I hadn’t heard the whole story. “We-ell, at first I just wasn’t allowed to leave the yard, have friends over or get phone calls,” he admitted. “It didn’t really matter anyway, because the triplets were gone and I didn’t really hang out with anyone else too much.” 

“You must have done something else to get to this level of punishment.” 

“I called my mom something.” 

“Oh yeah? ‘Something?’ What something?” 

Jeff shot me a look of derision, but when he realized I wasn’t going to tell him off, the facial expression softened. Now he was just embarrassed. “I don’t want to say.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “You called your mom something so bad that you got grounded up the yin yang, something so bad you can’t even repeat it to me?” 

He blushed again, but turned a little defiant. “She made me really mad.” 

I thought about the type of words you could call a woman in a fit of anger, and I couldn’t think of a single thing my mother could ever do that would make me want to call her one of them. “No offense, but sounds like maybe you deserved to be grounded.” 

“Yeah,” he admitted, sighing mightily. “I really wish I could take it back, and not just because then I wouldn’t be stuck in the house without any human contact.” 

“Have you tried telling her that?” 

“No,” Jeff admitted. He slumped down into the corner of the couch, looking lost and unhappy again like he had outside. He inspected his knee graze some more. “I guess,” he continued, “I’m still just a little bit mad at her.” 

“Ahh. Well, I can understand that,” I acknowledged with a nod. Jeff looked up from his bandages, surprise evident in his face. I guess no one had ever told him it was alright to be angry at his mother before. “Can I give you just a couple pieces of information that I’ve learned the hard way?” His nod was almost imperceptible, but I took it as acceptance. “First, they’re human, parents. Your mom. Your dad and whatever he’s done to make you mad at him, why ever he sent you to spend the whole summer in a place you hate. They make mistakes just as often as you do. They get mad over things that they maybe shouldn’t…just like you and I do.” 

Jeff just grunted, because I think somewhere deep down he knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier when his mom said that exact right thing to set him off. “Second, you don’t know how much longer you have with your parents, so make sure you tell them everything you want them to know before they’re gone.” Now I knew exactly what he was thinking: he rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t want to sound like some wise sage,” I continued in a low voice, bending forward with my hands at my waist like a crazy yoga master. “These are probably the only two pieces of advice I’m even marginally qualified to give, and that’s only because I have had them drilled into my head. Hard.” 

“You ever get grounded like this?” he asked. 

I thought about that, digging through the three thousand groundings I’d earned through the years. “Not exactly like you,” I mused. “I once got the locked-in-my-room-with-no-outside-contact grounding, but that was because I’d broken the same rule for about the hundred-millionth time. Not because I called my mom something so horrible I wouldn’t share it later.” 

“She made me mad,” he repeated stubbornly. 

“I get that. And sometimes, my mom makes me mad too. But she’s all I have left, so as much as I am known for my temper, I really try not to take it out on her.” 

We talked soccer for the next twenty minutes or so, until my time with him was up. “Do you have to go?” Jeff asked, his voice turning into a whine near the end of the question. 

“Unfortunately, yes. My sister’s got some kind of violin concert tonight and I have to eat a quick dinner and get dressed up in fancy clothes.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought of changing out of my comfortable shorts and t-shirt and into a conservative skirt and blouse, something Anna-esque, and sitting in the concert hall for hours. I loved my sister and didn’t mind listening to her play, but she was only one of the seven people performing. “Anyway, I don’t want to make things worse for your parents by still being here when they get home.” 

Jeff acknowledged the logic of that statement, but he watched me mournfully as I packed up my bag and grabbed my helmet. “Jeff,” I said, stopping at the outside door. He was standing in front of the fridge, getting ready to find himself a light snack. “I know you’re still upset, but do consider apologizing to your mom. It will make so many things in your life so much easier. Trust me on this.” 

I left before he could reply, but I thought about his situation as I biked back to my house and hopped in the shower. By the time I put on that plain pale-blue blouse and gray, swishy skirt, dried my hair and put on a quick smear of makeup, Mom was home. “Step it up, Abby,” she called from the island in the kitchen. “I made you a quick meal and set it on the table for you.” 

I ignored the sandwich sitting on the small table in the kitchen and walked around to the other side of the room. Mom had that day’s newspaper open in front of her and was idly perusing it while waiting for me. 

I wrapped my arms around Mom in a backwards hug and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What was that for?” Mom asked, startled. 

I sat down in front of my meal and turned my attention to stuffing my face. “Sometimes you just need to be reminded how much I love you,” I announced with my mouth full.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, BSC fans! Ho ho ho!


End file.
